


Hoc Est Questus Tediosum

by whitchry9



Series: Carpe Diem [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Again, Epilepsy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped, Medical, Seizure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 04:51:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can't recall any reasons why he would be kidnapped, but here he is nonetheless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hoc Est Questus Tediosum

He was sitting in one of those high backed chairs, the ones that Mrs Hudson always thought looked so nice when she saw them on design shows, the ones that John argued would make you feel trapped.

John was right on that count. Sherlock did indeed feel trapped, although that may have had something more to do with rough strips of rope wrapped around his wrists and ankles, rather than simply the chair. Of course, it didn't help that the chair was tall and suffocating.

 

Kidnapped then. Always an adventure. But he wasn't on a case, so he really didn't know why he was taken this time. He didn't recall offending anyone as of late, (of course, John really was the authority on that) nor did he see any signs of impending danger last time he'd been forced to speak with Mycroft.

It was all rather puzzling. Not to mention he couldn't quite recall the events leading up to this.

 

He wracked his brain. There was a smell... a sickly sweet smell.

_Ah..._

Chloroform. Messy and inaccurate, and effective only if you know what you're doing, which Sherlock doubted these men did. They were lucky he wasn't dead.

 

Right. The men. Two of them in the room with him, seemingly unaware he had awoken, which gave him the advantage. Neither of them looked very clever, but at least they were wearing masks, which meant they didn't intend to kill him.

He wondered whose clever idea it was to use chloroform. He had to admit, that while being dangerous, it was remarkably effective, and was one thing he hadn't built up a tolerance to yet, (and suspected John would frown upon doing so now).

A whiff of the sweet smelling stuff, and Sherlock had struck out, not caring who he hit, as long as it was one of the people who was surrounded him. And it seemed he had managed by the way the one man was holding himself gingerly.

He smirked. At least he had broken some ribs before he passed out. Served them right.

 

Apparently his smirking had grown louder than usual, or else he had just gotten unlucky, because the man without the broken ribs looked up at him and nudged his partner, whispering to him.

Sherlock grinned at them.

They looked away from him and talked between themselves for a few minutes, occasionally glancing back, as if Sherlock was going to escape.

He used that time to wrack his brain, trying to remember anything before this. Anything during that day at all. He and John had been... out? At Angelo's, so probably for supper. Was it a stakeout? It would explain why he was here and not John, if he had gone running in one direction and John in another.

_Oh god, what about Gladstone? She must have been with me..._

As if she had heard Sherlock thinking about her, Gladstone let out a whine, and Sherlock craned his neck to see her tied to some sort of post to the left and behind him. She was safe, or at least as safe as he was.

The men were still muttering to each other, nothing that Sherlock could make out. He sighed loudly, already bored, which prompted the man with the broken ribs to glare at him.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, and he looked away, still scowling.

He looked back to Gladstone, who perked up when he make eye contact. She stood up, and looked like she wanted to get to him, straining against the leash that held her back.

She whined.

_Oh damn._

 

“Gentlemen,” Sherlock said calmly. “I suggest you lay me on the floor within the next five minutes, or you are going to have a serious problem.”

The men looked at him, then looked at each other. They burst out laughing.

Sherlock smirked. “It's all the same to me, really,” he continued. “But it'll only make it that much worse for you when you get caught.”

They only scoffed at him and left, muttering between them.

 

Sherlock sighed. He really didn't mind, after all, it was for The Work, but Gladstone was getting rather anxious, and Sherlock feared what they would do to her. Keeping her away from him during a seizure could have disastrous consequences, and he didn't fear as much for his own safety as he did for hers.

“Shh...” he soothed her. “It's alright.”

He gave her a warning glance, and she quieted down somewhat, still whimpering and looking anxious.

 _I know,_ he told her. _I don't like it either. But it's going to be fine._

Neither of them believed him.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock returned to consciousness slowly, a trip that was not at all helped by the position of his head, which was still somewhat upright. At least when he was lying down, there was more blood flow. It certainly didn't help matters.

He was sore, obviously, just like he was after all seizures, and exhausted, but there was more. Bonus pain that wasn't there normally.

Ah. His wrists.

Sherlock glanced down to see them rubbed raw and bleeding from where his arms had spasmed against the rough restraints. He assumed his ankles were rather the same, but in somewhat better shape because of the protective layer of his pants.

He was mildly surprised that he hadn't knocked the chair over.

The men were not in the room, but Gladstone was still there, laying down watching him.

“It's okay,” he soothed her. She wasn't at all relieved. “No...” Sherlock muttered. “I suspected you wouldn't be.”

She tilted her head slightly at him.

“It's fine. We'll go home soon,” he assured her.

And if dogs could roll their eyes, Sherlock would have sworn Gladstone did.

 

* * *

 

 

And of course it wasn't fine, because it was never fine. They left him there for who knows how long, Sherlock's internal clock was more than a bit screwed up by the chloroform and seizure, and couldn't judge how long it'd been. It felt like days, but he knew it couldn't have been more than a couple of hours, a night at the most.

Time was funny like that. Bits of it went missing every so often, and sometimes it would just slow down, to the point of nearly stopping, where everyone else was just around him crawling while he was running to the next thing. It was tiresome.

Gladstone didn't seem amused, just watched him tiredly. Sherlock knew that he'd missed a meal, maybe more than one, which didn't really concern him, but he worried for Gladstone. John would probably laugh, because he worried more about the bloody dog than he did himself, but in return, she looked out for him. And on some level, John understood that, and made sure to look out for the things Gladstone couldn't.

They made such a good team.

 

So the weeks (hours) dragged on, and Sherlock grew ever more bored. Even his kidnappers hadn't returned to entertain him. He couldn't sleep, and he couldn't go to his mind palace because of the way his hands were trapped. He needed them.

So he composed, humming under his breath, watching the piece come together before his eyes. Gladstone seemed indifferent whether he composed or not, only sitting up indignantly at one point.

“Oh, come on, I liked that bit,” he complained.

Gladstone just looked at him and whined.

“Oh...” he realized.

Sherlock sighed.

“So the song was alright then?”

And Sherlock swore Gladstone nodded.

Well. At least there was that. But he very much was not looking forward to having the wounds on his wrists opened up again.

Such was life.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was rather disappointed he missed the rescue, being a bit unconscious at the time, but John reassured him later that it was eventful, but not so much that Sherlock wouldn't have been bored if he were awake.

Of course, it really wasn't like he'd had a choice in the matter, only briefly regaining consciousness as he was loaded in the ambulance, Gladstone on one side and John on the other. His head ached and he couldn't even remember what had happened, until the kidnapping had flashed back to him. Of course, the events after the first seizure (was there more than one? Two? Three?) were foggy at best. His head ached just to think about it.

 

So he didn't and just looked at Gladstone, resting quite calmly.

 _I'm sorry,_ he told her with his eyes.

Gladstone sighed and cocked her head in a way that clearly said _this is getting tiresome_.

“Indeed,” he muttered. “Indeed it is.”

John looked at him with an odd expression. “Sherlock, who are you talking to?”

“Just Gladstone,” he sighed.

John frowned. “Right.”

“S'alright,” he murmured.

If he was looking at John, he would have known that he sighed with his head in his hands.

“No Sherlock, it's really not. You need to stop getting kidnapped.”

“Don't try...” he muttered.

John smiled sadly. “I know. But I don't like losing you, and having to find you, and then finding you tied to a chair, lying on the floor.”

Sherlock struggled to spin his head to look at John.

“Stop that,” he scolded. “You're on a backboard, stop squirming.”

Instead, John leaned over Sherlock so he could see his face.

“Was on the floor?” he asked stupidly.

John nodded. “How else would you have hurt your head.”

Sherlock reached a hand up to touch his head, and it came away bloody.

“Oh.”

John settled his hand back at his side. “Stop moving you idiot,” he said fondly. “We figure that you had a seizure and knocked over the chair. Suppose it could have been worse. You could have landed on your face rather than your hard head.”

Sherlock could hear John smiling as he said that, and belatedly noticed he had closed his eyes. With effort, he opened them again.

“Two,” he whispered.

“You fell over twice?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and attempted to shake his head.

“Seizures,” he slurred.

“Right.” John patted Sherlock's hand with his. “Well you just rest. We're almost there.”

 _Thought I wasn't supposed to sleep if I had a head injury?_ Sherlock wanted to say, but the ambulance had stopped, and the doors were opened, and the sunlight was so bright, streaming in on his face, so he closed his eyes, just for a minute.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was home at Baker Street the next day, still rather miserable, but not much more than usual. His wrists were bandaged, and he moaned about them aching, and his head had been stitched shut, and he moaned about that hurting.

John ignored him for the most part, occasionally checking to see he was still breathing, and putting on a Doctor Who marathon that was running for a good part of the day. (Sherlock moaned considerably less after that, not that he would admit it.) He woke him up to feed him supper, and watched him take his meds.

All the while, Gladstone supervised from her place on Sherlock's knees.

And in her world, all was well.

**Author's Note:**

> Hoc Est Questus Tediosum is Latin for 'this is getting tiresome'. Poor Gladstone.


End file.
